Dangerous Liaison
by ragabeubeu
Summary: After Michael's death, Kellerman sees his window to seduce Sara and takes it.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: well, this story was (clearly) inspired by _Les Laisons Dangereuses_, and I haven't decided yet whether it'd have an ending quite as tragic, though I promise there'll be some fun in between. The idea was given to me by sexysiren1981, who is amazing by the way and who I thank warmly for the motivation she's given me to write Trapped Here With You. I'd already co-written a Sara/Kellerman story that set in this context, but NOT in the same state of mind. This sets after the final prison break episode, although I've chosen not to regard the movie that was made afterwards; Sara never went to prison and Michael and her did have a wedding night, and a few months together before he died. Also, I decided to ignore the fact that Kellerman visibly becomes a politician. Well, this is getting awkwardly long; hope you'll enjoy this : )

CHAPTER 1

_'__He is a villain by the devil's law, he is a killer just for fun; the man's a snitch and unpredictable. He's got no conscience, he's got none.' _

_Criminal _

The atmosphere was lugubrious, and even more so was the young woman's face, at the front row, whose peachy cheeks were dry from tears, but the look in her eyes was worth a river of grief.

To be a widow before the age of thirty was what many people considered a tragedy, to watch youth and love be cut down in their prime gave most a feeling of unfairness that could bring tears to their eyes, should the couple be strangers. But not Paul Kellerman. When he watched that particular widow lay a red rose on her husband's grave, with those silky flaming hair gathered on her left shoulder, the sole thought that occurred to him was: waste.

The wedding ring remained firmly around her finger, as though to demonstrate that she was a widow, most certainly, but more than that a wife. In fact, what Kellerman read in that gold circle which adorned the woman's finger, was an inward vow. The vow that she would remain faithful and ever so in love with her departed husband, should that condemn her to a life of loneliness.

It's indeed what Kellerman called a waste, especially when the woman in question was as attractive as Sara Tancredi. The sky was cloudy, and the weather matched the idea he had of funerals.

The young woman took a step backwards to join the rest of the crowd when they lay her husband's body down to rest, and as she watched the casket being drawn into the ground, her eyes filled up with a swamp of sadness – and resignation. Almost as though nothing in this world could disturb her from her grief. But then, her eyes set on him. A trace of anger parted her lips, as though to protest, and Kellerman had to repress a smile. She would hate him, surely, if he should smile at Michael Scofield's burial, even more than she'd hate him for merely showing up; even more than she hated him already.

Sara drew her eyes back on the casket, but her cheeks were crimson red, from anger or the intensity of his eyes on her, he couldn't tell. But she was furious, he knew this much and had expected it as well; his presence here was undoubtedly inappropriate, but it was necessary as the first stage of his plan. The young woman kept her eyes frozen on the scene, and her head held high, as though outraged to have merely been unfocused – again, disrupting her was the idea. It was, in Kellerman's book, a good beginning.

To give her a new reason to be angry at him, after he'd saved her and her husband from a life on the run–what had turned out to be a tragically short life–after he'd laid Scylla into most capable hands, and allowed Scofield and her to begin and end a happy life together. After he'd tortured her with iron and water, and a certain amount of attempts to kill each other had followed.

Inappropriately showing up at her husband's funeral should be enough to anger her, which would be a way to start a serious conversation like any other. Besides, if Kellerman was going to be an obstacle in the way of Sara's grief, he figured it was smarter to start right away. Because there was no way such a beautiful woman should remain a widow till the end of her days.

Because he'd wanted her since they'd eaten a blueberry pie together, and he'd watched her lick sweet syrup from her fingers.

Because it'd been a while since Paul Kellerman had truly wanted anything, and he sometimes liked to indulge himself in luscious desires. Because it would be a fine challenge.

Because he'd already played Sara Tancredi once, and why the hell not?

He lowered his eyes in feigned respect for the dead, to ensure he'd appear as respectful as they come when Sara would look at him – and she would, look at him. He glanced her way just soon enough to meet her eyes, and watch the red tint on her cheeks increase slightly.

Paul Kellerman didn't consider himself an honorable man, and he didn't consider that to seduce a beautiful young widow to satisfy his own appetite, only weeks after her husband's death, was beneath him; he considered that to draw her into his games without asking whether or not she wanted to play wasn't, after all, worse than what used to be his every-day-routine.

He didn't exactly wonder in what state he would leave her afterwards, whether it'd be better or worse. He didn't care. He _wouldn't_ care; that was the only condition he'd imposed himself.

He waited for the crowd to slowly clear from the cemetery and for Lincoln, the no doubt protective brother-in-law, to be temporarily gone, to make his first move. Sara stood alone by her husband's grave, and the look on her face was perhaps graver – except now, it was slightly forced. His presence had upset her, and she'd needed to refocus on her grief.

She wouldn't approach him, he knew this, but he hadn't come here not to approach her. When she remained alone before the tombstone, Kellerman saw his window and seized it. He neared the grave, walking slowly enough for her to acknowledge his presence and to make sure not to appear intrusive.

"What are you doing here?"

But of course, she sounded intruded. Kellerman reckoned that, right now, she hated him enough for anything he'd do or say to be considered intrusive.

He made sure to sound one hundred percent serious when he replied. "I meant to apologize. I didn't mean to surprise you earlier, I understand how it might have upset you."

"You're not the reason I'm upset today, Kellerman."

Her eyes remained fixed on the stone, and it was both devoted and an excuse not to look at him – though she knew he was looking at her. He knew she could feel it; he could hear the slight nervousness in the way she breathed.

He watched her for a second more before he went on. "But you do believe that my coming here was improper. I didn't mean to offend you."

"Offend me?" The scoff it tore out of her was utterly humorless; she didn't sound heartsick, just heartbroken. "From what I recall, Paul, you're not the type to stop at such details."

"And it's precisely what I cared to apologize about. I'm changed, Sara." He added, and this much got enough of her attention to draw her eyes on his – maybe she was just assessing his sincerity. She would find no trace of lies in his eyes.

She looked away after a short moment, and the sliver of bewilderment in her hazel eyes almost drew from him an instinctive ravenous smile. During the months that would follow, he'd have to remind himself not to grin.

"Even so," she said, and her eyes were once again set on the grave. "I can't think of a reason why you'd come here."

"Would it really be so ridiculous to think that I came to make amends?"

"Not ridiculous." She admitted, but her voice was still grim, and her eyes were still set on her husband's tomb. "Maybe just slightly out of character."

"Think whatever you'd like of me, Sara," he was certain to remain meticulously serious and calm, "but I do care about you." He reckoned that taking the fall for her in court had been one way to demonstrate it.

Kellerman lowered his eyes to assess the young woman's silhouette, and needed to hold back a grin once more as his gaze lingered on the subtle curve of her belly, which her black dress didn't fully mask.

"And in the state you're in," he continued, just as serious, "you're going to need a friend."

He watched her jaw clench when he spoke those last words. Her next reply was cold as ice. "Thank you, Paul, though what I need right now is to be alone." Though what she meant by that was that a friend like him was the last thing she needed. "I do hope you'll respect me enough to respect my wishes."

A man's footsteps approached, loudly enough for Kellerman to bite his tongue. A second later, Lincoln's hand was flying upon Sara's shoulder, and his eyes were dancing from her to Kellerman as if to assess what had been the nature of their conversation.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here, Paul." Lincoln ultimately said, and there was enough ice in his voice for it to be clear that his presence wasn't only unexpected but unwanted.

Kellerman understood the older brother's animosity. He had saved their lives a few months earlier, which forced them to behave at least civilly in his presence; but his past actions didn't undo the fact that he'd murdered Lincoln's ex-girlfriend and her husband, tried to smother him, and had left Sara to drown in a bathtub after a day of thorough torture.

He set his eyes on Sara again, and replied as she let her own gaze dive back on the freshly dug grave. "I came to send my regards."

Lincoln seemed to wonder whether or not this was ambiguous, before he merely tightened his hold on Sara's shoulder, softly enough not to rush her.

"Come on, Sara. Let's go." He suggested.

Both turned around to leave, and just when Lincoln's hand dropped back to his side, Kellerman's swiftly closed around Sara's wrist; he was careful to be gentle–she needed to know he could show gentleness–but firm enough for her to turn around.

"I really do wish you well, Sara." He asserted, probably with more tenderness she'd ever seen him employ.

A sliver of protective rage flew into Lincoln's eyes, but he ultimately showed no reaction. Sara looked back into Kellerman's eyes, and for a second the awareness in them was such he would have feared she'd see right through his act, had he not been the master of lie.

She held his gaze with remarkable determination, and with her smooth red hair, black outfit and snow white skin, Kellerman decided he'd never seen her more beautiful than now.

"Thank you." She uttered, and oddly enough, she seemed to genuinely mean it. She was like a martyr pleading for mercy. "Now please leave me alone." She finished, and turned away once more.

He let go of her hand when she walked, and it wasn't brutal nor bitter. Of course, reluctance was a stage he was prepared to face, though ultimately he was confident enough to assert Sara would accept his friendship; she'd accept him as a confident, and he'd wait for his presence in her life to have become essential. Kellerman thought it'd be quite the excitement to watch her betray her vows to her dead husband, to watch her battle with her beliefs, but still be unable to resist him.

Kellerman turned back towards the grave, almost in an unspoken mockery to the late Michael Scofield.

He had played the man's girlfriend before, and he'd made sure the limits were resettled. There was something that had happened the first time around, something which Kellerman couldn't deny – and couldn't allow to happen again. Lance had cared about the girl; the tight-gripping panic that had overwhelmed him when he'd watched his men clean her wrecked apartment, was something that could not recur. Something that wouldn't recur.

It wouldn't be hard, either; after all, Kellerman had always considered his was a heart of stone. If he wasn't moved by strident supplications when his victims begged for their lives, surely he could handle a few devoted tears falling on his forearm, as he'd bring Sara Tancredi to surrender. He'd bring her to the state where pleasing him was her entire and sole priority.

He allowed himself a smile at the thought, a wide carnivorous grin, for all the smiles he knew he'd have to suppress, then he started walking away.

He had indeed played Sara Tancredi once before. But this time, something told him it was going to be different.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note** : so, I'm currently on holiday in Canada, which means I have little access to a computer and further less to internet, still this wouldn't be a holiday if I weren't writing, so… Hope you'll enjoy this, I'm writing it during a sleepless-jetlagged night. What can I say? Romance is _always_ on my mind.

…

_"__It's quite the excitement to watch her betray everything that's most important to her."_

_Le_ Vicomte de Valmont_, Dangerous Liaisons_

There was something about his new behavior that Lincoln found suspicious. Too thoughtful. Too kind. Too convenient. Oh yes, that was the word for Paul Kellerman's brand new attitude: _convenient_. His attempts seemed tireless, his timing spectacular; he'd show up only when Sara was alone, not a minute nor a second before, and the times he would appear would be times when she was lonely, or particularly sore – hard times.

No one ever said grief was easy.

It wasn't easy for Lincoln either, but he did his best to make it work, for his family's sake. And Sara was family. She'd become family from the moment she'd stood on that altar, stared at his little brother right in the eyes and said: I do. But to Lincoln, she'd been family since much before – maybe it'd been the time in the jet plane which had taken them to LA; he'd sat on his own side and hadn't spoken a word, because he'd figured his brother and her would appreciate some privacy, and he'd watched Michael press a kiss to his girlfriend's forehead while she lay asleep in his arms. Maybe it dated from before then even; maybe Lincoln had started to obliviously consider Sara as family from the moment they'd met again in Chicago, and he'd learned from Michael what she had endured instead of giving away what, at the time, sounded very much like the key to his freedom. She hadn't done it _for_ him, but that didn't matter and the fact itself that she had done it had made him forever in her debt. Maybe she'd felt like family to him from the moment he'd sat at her side, at the train station, and held her forearm in his palm.

Maybe it was just ever since he'd learned his unborn nephew or niece was growing in her stomach.

Maybe it was just that, if Sara Tancredi hadn't become family, then he'd have little of it left.

Whatever the reason or the moment, Lincoln had come to think of her as one of his own–the fact that she wore the name Scofield and not Burrows made no difference–and if there was one thing he'd learned from this family, was that you protect your own. On this level, Lincoln thought man was no different from a wolf defending his pack.

He'd developed a protective attitude towards Sara, one that he didn't allow himself to think of as possessive. The point being, every time he found that annoying Paul Kellerman–whom he sometimes like to call Mr. Douche or 007–at Sara's side, this slight pinch of hatred would show its face, clench his jaw and tighten his fists.

He guessed at some point, he could hardly deny it – he did hate the guy. And, though he would like to deny it even more, he hated him more since he'd started stalking his sister-in-law. All right, maybe he wasn't exactly _stalking_ her, still from time to time, when Lincoln was scheduled to meet with her, he'd show up a minute early or two and catch Kellerman nearby. Sitting with her in the garden. Exiting through the front door as though he had absolutely nothing to hide. This man _always_ had something to hide. Lincoln told himself it was the only reason why he worried; he hated to run into Kellerman, walking out of Sara's house, a pleased smile on his face. It was the smile of a huntsman who is aware he's getting closer to his prey; the smile of one who likes to catch almost as much as he likes to eat.

Though what he hated most, was that when he came to find Sara afterwards, with a slight but undeniable haste and growing concern, the expression on her face would grow less weary day after day. The first time he'd come to see her after encountering Paul, it was more than obvious that the man's visit had been unwanted. Sara's face was imprinted with sore annoyance, and the sigh she'd let out when Lincoln had asked what the hell was this man still doing in the neighborhood had been more than genuine; but still Lincoln wondered if, even then, he hadn't missed a slight ounce of relief in Sara's expression. Doubtlessly, she hated Paul Kellerman at least as much as he did, but if those visits due to an alleged wish for friendship made her beyond upset, and angry, and enraged up to a point where fury would blaze in her eyes, it also made Sara something else which Lincoln couldn't deny; alive.

Lincoln had a girlfriend, and a son whom he adored, all of this his family but more than that his ties to the living – but Sara… Every time he'd spot that wedding ring on her slim finger, a sad inescapable thought would come over him. A cold sensation, like a gust of icy wind. She wasn't married to his brother anymore. She was married to her grave.

And perhaps, although Paul Kellerman was a wicked _wicked_ man, although it was merely friendship and not even that, although his attention had to be the last thing she deserved, chances remained it was what she needed – and what she wanted. Obliviously. Lincoln knew men like him, and he knew what men like him wanted, and still as time passed, he realized the expression on Sara's face, after Kellerman's visits, had turned less cold. Less weary. This man had a gift to anger her, he did, he had a gift to make her cheeks red with rage and her eyes glow with fire, but all of these were things that stood in the way of indifference; and death. These were things that ensured that, even though the young woman visited the cemetery every day and laid a red rose on Michael's grave, as a tribute to the origami flower he'd made for her in prison, she belonged to a very living crowd.

Yes. What Lincoln hated the most about Paul Kellerman, was doubtlessly the fact that he put life into his sister-in-law's eyes. For this, he didn't like the fellow at all, and he trusted him even less. Didn't trust him because he knew men like Kellerman were sharks, and sharks showed no regard to their victims. Didn't trust him because, as Sara slowly regained color in her cheeks and in her eyes, although her clothes remained pitch black, he'd noticed Kellerman's grin became imperceptibly wider.

He didn't trust him because there was something suspicious about that grin; something too close to the expression of a cruel boy who plays and plays with his toy, and will toss it aside without a second thought to start another game.

…

A MONTH EARLIER

"Aren't you even going to ask me what I'm –"

"No."

Sara's answer sounded definitive, and would leave no room for negotiation should her interlocutor be resigned to stay in their place. Something which Paul Kellerman absolutely was not.

"Fine." He conceded, an expression of not overly pushed respect filling his face. "Will you listen to me then?"

"We've already had this conversation before, Paul, I thought I'd been clearer than clear."

Yes, she had made her wish for him to leave her alone quite obvious, although it was a stage that Kellerman had been expecting and wasn't startled by. She hated him which, after all, was a better start than for her to regard him with utter indifference. Hate and love were separated by such a slim line, regardless of how cliché. Soon in his presence her cheeks would fill with red for different reasons. Soon it wouldn't be anger raising her tone but the pleading cry of a desperate woman, who's made a vow for eternal chastity.

Sara Tancredi was a far too beautiful woman to belong body and soul to a man's stone.

Sometimes, Paul Kellerman wondered if it was really the sole purpose of this game. Beauty was a powerful thing, and a sufficient factor when accompanied by these: it'd been a while since he'd last indulged himself in such an act, he could afford it, and Sara seemed to be the ideal person to play with. She'd be more of a pawn than a second player.

The thought didn't make him smile. After all these years of being a professional liar, he'd learned to keep a straight face.

"Yes, Sara," he confirmed, "you've made yourself perfectly clear."

Suspicion veiled her eyes like a judgmental frown. She knew he wouldn't stop there, and so he forced himself to sound almost impassive as he went on; the incarnation itself of innocence.

"Nevertheless, I'll ask that you please show me the kindness to pay attention. You owe me nothing, Sara," he pointed out compliantly, and inaudibly hoped to remind her of a few sacrifices he'd made for her – he could see them scrolling in her melted-honey eyes. "I haven't come here to worsen your day, and further less to increase your grief." He spoke with such understanding it could have made him appear as an expert in human kindness.

She hesitated slightly. Her eyes were still clouded with doubt, and her bottom lip quivered slightly as she assessed him warily. Those lips were like a ripe plum begging to be tasted. Without a doubt, Kellerman thought he'd seldom seen a widow as attractive as young Sara Tancredi, with crimson red hair and a milk pale skin. Her eyes were like the smooth surface of a dark wood. He kept his free from envy.

"Fine," she ultimately permitted, "then what?"

She'd allowed him to reveal what he'd allegedly come here to say, but he didn't allow himself to smile at such a small victory.

"Don't tell me it's because you want to make amends."

"Why not?" He replied. "I've told you, Sara, I'm a changed man."

"Please don't say that." Her eyes fled his shortly. She was still standing behind the doorframe of the entry of her house; she hadn't invited him in, and he doubted she would. She looked back at him, and he was briefly surprised by the strength that blazed in them. "Don't tell me you've come here to tell me you're changed, Paul, because whether or not you are really has nothing to do with me." Sudden worry came over her eyes and she rephrased. "I mean it's nothing to me. I don't care that you say you've changed, even if you have, I don't care what you do with your life anymore if it won't threaten mine."

"Is that really the only scenario that you think would allow me into your life?" He didn't make it sound as though he'd be willing to go that far.

"Well, isn't it all we've ever had?"

"Not quite." He countered, and waited a while before he dared say. "We were friends once, weren't we?"

Outrage overwhelmed her face. "I think that friendship ended from the moment you've strapped me to a chair."

She'd closed up like iron gates, and Kellerman could tell it was the farthest he'd go today; it didn't matter. He'd try again.

"Please don't stop by again." She said, but it wasn't a plea as much as a warning.

Sara shut the door in his face, and he waited merely a few seconds before he walked away. Just anyone wouldn't consider today's visit as progress, but he knew better; there'd been an improvement, one that couldn't be denied. Now, the young widow didn't expect him _one bit_ to stand down. He knew he'd be back, and she knew it too, and he'd make his attempts so methodical and skilled, soon she would no longer be able to ask him to stop. Because he'd be the only attention she'd receive, and his would be thorough and lustful, and warm, and alive. Because through the vow to belong forevermore to her dead husband, part of her had to be aware she was like a child sitting in the dark, when everyone had long ago stopped playing hide and seek. She was a hiding little girl, who knew she would have to step out of the shadows someday, but didn't have the will to stand.

He'd carry her straight up from her grave. He'd gather her into his arms and unto a silky bed. He'd warm her skin with kisses until she remembered she was alive, and when he'd have enough he'd leave her to die.

Maybe the universe shouldn't have made Sara Tancredi a beautiful woman.

…

Sara stood by the fireplace in her living room, her fists and eyes drawn shut. If any higher power lived up above, it would strike Paul Kellerman dead right at this second. It was a horrible thought, and she cursed herself for it a second later.

He'd be back. She knew it and he knew she knew it. He would be back.

Maybe she'd have to tell him she'd forgiven him. He'd tried to kill her, she'd tried to kill him. Maybe she could tell him they were even, by her book, and she wished him well in his quest for peace, or whatever the hell it was he was trying to find.

Even is not what they were.

Her doorbell rang again–she'd secured the door locked–and she hurriedly went to open it when she remembered she expected company. A second before she unlocked the door and pulled it open, she felt a fleeting fear that Paul Kellerman would appear on the other side of it. The worry disappeared as Lincoln entered, almost immediately; and to young woman's greatest surprise, a hint of disappointment came over her, the sensation so guilty she wished to forever banish it from her mind.

Maybe it was because Lincoln and her grieved the same man, and because each second she spent thinking of how to vanish Kellerman from her life was a second she spent unfocused on her grief. It was precisely why she never wanted to see him again.

"Hi, Lincoln." She greeted, and repressed the past few thoughts so deeply it was as though they'd never existed at all.

"Hey." He replied, and she noticed a worried half-astonished expression was frozen in his eyes. "Did I just have a hallucination?"

"What?"

"I just thought it was the only explanation for seeing Paul Kellerman smiling at me and stepping out of your garden."

"Oh." She let out an exhale and ran a hand through her hair. "Yeah. He said he came to make amends."

"And you believe that?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

She started making coffee, for Lincoln only; she hadn't been able to drink any since she'd learned she was pregnant, and doubted she'd ever needed any more than now. She simply poured herself a glass of hot milk and pretended it tasted bitter.

"So, how have you been?" She asked, and thought of asking about LJ and Sofia, but the still startled expression on her brother-in-law's face led her to think he wasn't done dealing with that more current topic.

A shame, she thought; she would have loved to stop thinking about Paul Kellerman for the rest of the day.

"Good." Lincoln still took the time to answer. "Has that creep been bothering you?" It seemed clear he meant that, should that have been the case, he wished she'd told him immediately.

She answered truthfully. "Before today, I hadn't seen him since the funeral."

"Well, do you think there's any chance you won't see him again?"

Sara bit he lip, and Lincoln nodded.

"You were hoping I wouldn't ask that question, weren't you?"

"Sort of." She admitted. "Look, I've told him to stay away, and I can't think of a reason he'd nag me just for the kicks of it."

"So?"

"So for what it's worth, I think he's sincere."

Lincoln remained silent a second, as though to appraise that assertion. "I don't trust the guy." He ultimately said.

"I don't either." Sara replied. "And I don't want to."

A frown froze on Lincoln's forehead before he could help it, because of this strange thought… the thought that his sister-in-law meant the last part of her sentence more than the first.

"Come on." She tore him back to reality. "I'll fetch you something to eat."

…

The imperceptible swell of her belly had turned into a slight yet undeniable bump, one that gave Paul Kellerman an almost irresistible urge to grin. Some women never bloom more than when they are expecting their first child, and he had trouble thinking this stereotype would fit one better than it did Sara. She looked beautiful. He wondered in how much trouble he'd be in if he were to tell her.

He'd gotten her to agree to meet him at a café, where he expected she'd be drinking anything apart from coffee. He'd chosen this place still because he figured it'd be the only location she'd agree to meet him; a restaurant was too intimate, and probably too close to a date.

He had to stifle several grins, especially when his eyes lowered to _the_ bump, where he easily pictured Micheal Scofield's ghost furiously turning back in his grave. This much made him want to smile. A _wicked_ smile. He could almost feel sorry for the unborn fetus, and the father. Surprisingly enough, not for the mother.

He'd learned long ago that first unrivaled rule. Never to take pity on your preys.

"Well?" Sara spoke expectantly, not a second after she'd sat opposite him and before she even ordered.

He remained silent and calm, and repressed a smirk at her annoyance when a waitress came near their table. Sara's cheeks reddened slightly. He'd love to taste how warm she'd feel with his tongue.

He watched her with imperceptible delight as she had to pick something to drink, then wait for the waitress to walk away before she could look at him expectantly again. There was something _pleading_ in her eyes, something that almost looked as though she'd genuinely give anything to be rid of him and left alone to her grief. Left alone, sitting in the dark.

He'd bring light into her life whether she wanted it or not. And then wouldn't stick around to watch whether he'd made her alive or blind.

"Well?" She repeated, with a bit more urgency.

Paul innocently shrugged. "Well what?"

"What will it take?" She asked. "Fifteen minutes, half an hour?"

"It would help me to know what you're talking about."

She looked at him as though he were a lying bastard. He was, but that was hardly the point.

"You said you'd stop harassing me if I agreed to meet you."

"No," he countered, "I said I wouldn't have to stop by unexpected if you agreed to see me. Besides, I'm hardly harassing you."

She sighed and rolled her eyes, grabbed her purse and stood up.

"What?" He feigned to be surprised. "You're leaving?"

"Unless this is the last I'll see of you, yes." She sounded angry, and almost betrayed. "You've promised to leave me alone."

"No I haven't, and I won't." His tone was calm and patient. "What I've said is I understand you wish me to stay away."

"Then why won't you?"

"This I'll explain, if you will sit down and listen to me."

The young woman hesitated slightly. She was like a white lamb wondering whether the snake aimed to help or bite.

"Please." He insisted, but his tone was still just as calm.

Sara only remained on her feet one more second, her breath caught in her throat, silent wariness. _Remember how quick he was to pin you down into a porcelain tub. There's always something he wants. All snakes ultimately bite._

She sat down again, and he tilted his head in an unspoken _thank you_.

"You have five minutes." She warned.

And so he decided not to waste them. "I'm not the same man you knew once."

"I don't see how this is an explanation." Her tone was so cold and sharp he had to really try not to smile.

She thought she was the merciless one.

"Well, here's one. I meant it when I said I cared about you, regardless of how cruel or morbid it might appear to you now. Whether or not you'd like to believe that, I've changed my ways, and you're the only regret I have that isn't dead and buried." He meant this much, surprisingly. Sara Tancredi was the only person that had survived his will.

"So?" She said when he turned silent, colder than ice.

"So I'd like to make amends."

"By stalking me?"

"I'm not stalking you. You need help, Sara." He went on before she could look outraged. "Or if you don't now, you will. Humor me for a minute, think about it. You're twenty-nine-year-old ex-doctor, and regardless how brilliant you might be, you can trust me when I say that between the Burrows story and your history as an addict, you'll never work in a hospital again." He sounded so calm she could have spat in his face for this, but she only remained cold, and he specified. "I'm not saying this to hurt you."

"Then what? You want to blackmail me?"

"I want to help you." He spoke with all the sincerity in the world, but no pity. "Because on top of that, you're also about to become a single mother, and I doubt that Lincoln's salary as the owner of a swim shop or whatever else will be enough to help support you." He paused for a second. "I want to help you because I can, Sara, that's all there is to it."

She said nothing. Kellerman figured that a practical excuse could be a good way back into her life, as well as a truce offering, even though he hadn't yet predicted the young woman's reaction. This wasn't what mattered. It was his friendship that she'd come to need, and soon his attention would be the only thing on her mind and she would crave his love. Maybe the word "soon" was ambiguous.

"I don't want your help, Kellerman, and I don't care for your money." She'd oddly come to sound calm, too. "And I hope it's clear that, should you give me every penny you own, we'll never be even."

"I know that."

"Then take my word for it. I grew up in a house with money and no soul, if my child has to be raised the other way around, I'll get by."

"I don't doubt you will, you're the strongest person I know." He knew he'd already made progress by saying 'person' and not 'woman'. "I only mean to lighten your every day life."

She paused for a second, but didn't hesitate; didn't _consider_. "If I refuse, what else do you want from me?"

In other terms: what more did she have to say to chase him? Or: what was he _really_ doing here?

"For you to agree to my offer." He answered naturally.

"And what else is it that you offer?"

He answered right away. "Friendship. I'd like you to come to me if you're ever in trouble, money wise, legal wise, or anything else for that matter. I'd like you to know I'll be there to help you in any way I can any time you ask, with anything you want. I'd like you to know that you can rely on me."

She didn't reply.

"Also, I'm told I'm a good listener." He added. "If you're ever lonely." Ever tired of sitting alone in the shadows.

And then, Paul Kellerman turned silent, because the few next minutes were going to be determining. She'd either walk out on him right there and then, grab a glass of water from another customer's table and throw it in his face, or yield. She'd either make it easy on him or hard; the result would be the same whichever way.

The waitress came back with their drinks, and Sara didn't throw the content of hers in his direction. He figured it was progress. Maybe she was weary, or merely tired of fighting. Maybe she just wanted a friend. A friend who would owe her, who would be there to listen when or if she wanted to share. A friend who would be willing to love her without an agenda. A friend who wouldn't be the eternal reminder of her sorrow.

He'd never know.

But Sara closed her small fist around her plastic mug and took a small swallow. Kellerman allowed himself a smile.

He checked at the menu once more and noticed they served blueberry pie for dessert. He didn't think it wise to point it out.

…

Yes. Lincoln thought a lot of the relationship that had settled between his sister-in-law and the former 007, and the more he thought of it, the less he liked it. Because he didn't trust the damned Paul Kellerman, because he believed the man wouldn't play friends with Sara unless he wanted something from her, and because he didn't think Kellerman would stop at anything to get what he wanted.

Because he'd come to think of Sara as part of his family, and because Kellerman was like a tiger circling around his pack. Because he was utterly certain that nothing good would come out of it.

He knew he wasn't in charge of Sara's life, and it wasn't his place to tell her who she should hang out with; all he could allow himself was a worried frown, every time he'd run into him, getting out of her house. The worst was doubtlessly the thought that he was helping her cope; helping her heal. That his friendship, ridiculous at first, would soon become something she needed. Her ray of sunshine.

Lincoln remembered that blessed day, when his brother gave up Scylla to Paul Kellerman, when they signed on a piece of paper the key to their freedom, and their troubles finally seemed far away. He'd noticed something peculiar, when Sara had handed Kellerman hers; something slight, but that she must have felt too, if Lincoln himself managed to see it from a distance. He wasn't certain whether or not Michael had noticed.

It'd been a touch. A mere touch.

Sara had given her signed paper to Paul Kellerman, and he'd run a finger over hers.

Lincoln remembered it now, and it appeared to him suddenly and quite obviously as the proof of his guiltiness. As though that simple touch had been a presage for everything that had gone wrong ever since; his brother's death, Sara's endless mourning.

Right away, Lincoln wanted to run into his car and drive to her house, as though to warn her: _don't trust him. _

_Don't trust him._

_He's got something up his sleeve. He's always got something up his sleeve._

_He'd be sick enough to fix you for the mere kicks to tear you apart himself._

_He'll spin you around like a carousel and pin you down as he pleases, to watch you dance._

But Sofia was asleep next to him, and he didn't want to awaken his son. It was a stupid feeling. The silliest of feelings. He'd drive by Sara's house tomorrow and would talk to her then; yes. Nothing horribly bad could happen before then. He'd tell her tomorrow.

She wouldn't be foolish enough to trust him. She _really_ shouldn't trust him. Had she forgotten why?

…

**End Notes**: Hey, hope you've enjoyed this, please do tell me what you think about it, I always like to know people's opinions; I promise to update soon : )


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note** : okay, so I said I'd update soon and didn't, and if anyone cares whether or not this story is being updated, you have a right to be angry ) I just got REALLY caught up this summer, but I'll admit it, I missed my favorite teaming couple. Hope you'll enjoy this new chapter, remember reviews are always welcome : )

…

'_What is true of most men, is doubtless so of him.'_

_The Dangerous Liaisons_

CHAPTER 3

Sara Tancredi wasn't a foolish woman, and part of her began to suspect that for a certain ex-spy to be part of her life wasn't the smartest of things. Often, she would lay half-sitting on an armchair, in her living room, and she would ponder on the relationship that had settled between her, and Paul Kellerman.

There was something about that mere name now that sounded aggressively present.

He'd taken over an important part of her life; not in the way that he busied many hours in her days, or called on her on a daily basis. But in the way that he'd become someone she thought about a lot. And Sara couldn't think of a worse man than Paul Kellerman to be let inside your head.

And deep down, she knew it couldn't be smart.

Because if she wasn't certain that Kellerman was a cruel man, or even an evil one, she'd come to know clearer than clear that he was devious.

Because she'd let him inside of her life once, and this mistake had almost cost her her life.

Still, when Kellerman would call or ring her doorbell, he would ask for her time, and she would grant it to him; she really wasn't sure why. Maybe it was just the thought, although to trust him might be bad, the alternative was much worse.

He didn't call that often, and didn't visit her half as much as she thought he would, back when she liked to call those visits harassment. He peaked inside her life just enough for her to have time to ponder on it, think of how she would answer him, and plan on saying no – but she never said no; he never came up with the arguments she'd planned on countering. He never said what she expected him to say.

As she had told her late husband during his first month in prison, Sara considered herself a careful woman. She was a cautious, rational woman, and possessing the experience she had had, she knew that a relationship with a man, with any man half as devious as Paul Kellerman, would have to be ended.

Because she wanted to be a healthy mother for her child.

Because she knew that no good came out of taking a bite in that apple.

Because she'd been through enough to know better by now.

She really should know better. She'd heard too many times men tell her promises, and vows, which sounded sincere, and softer than a plea… and which they had no intention on keeping.

…

That morning, Sara woke up with a gasp, and sweat-soaked. Vivid dreams were something she was well-used to since the beginning of her pregnancy, but although she first awakened with no memory of it, she could tell something was strange about this one – something was different.

And almost immediately, without being able to explain why, she knew it was about Kellerman.

It came back to her in the shower; at the very first spray of water, still a hint cold, which hit her face. It was about the bathtub; it was about this particular motel room, in New Mexico, about the torture. A memory so clear it was almost only a transcription of the event, rather than a dream.

Sara looked down, and the swell of her belly which grew rounder every week was a reminder of where she was… and where she wasn't. She wasn't the same woman who had been fooled by two men in a row; and the second had left her quite the aftertaste. She wasn't the same foolish girl that had allowed a predator inside her home, before he turned against her.

Before he showed up out of nowhere, with a pistol in his hand.

And though Sara Tancredi was no longer that woman – she couldn't deny that the timing for such a dream couldn't be random. So she figured that, when Kellerman would show up next at her door, she would not allow him anything; regardless of what his arguments might be.

…

As if to test her determination, he came that same afternoon. He rung the doorbell, and Sara figured it could only be him; Lincoln wasn't scheduled to stop by until the next day, and rare were those who came to disturb her in her grief, barring the exception of Paul Kellerman. With that expectation in mind, she made her eyes impassive.

She walked to her door with a dragging pace; there was something about her that would have wished to stall, for some reason. As though she was afraid to discover that, regardless of her will, there would always be something about Kellerman's persuasive words that would make her give in.

She was momentarily startled by his proximity when she opened the door, and was oddly tempted to take a step back – it was because of the dream, no doubt. Because there had been something more significant to it than a simple nightmare; something close to a warning.

And Sara Tancredi was a careful woman.

"Hi." He greeted, and there was something overly gentle in his tone – perhaps it only had to do with the look on her face. "Came I come in?" He asked naturally, because if she hadn't denied it to him the past two weeks, the odds were slim she would now.

"Actually, I'd rather not." Sara said. She forbade herself to clear her throat, or swallow, run a hand through her hair, or anything else that might give out her nervousness.

When facing a man like Kellerman, one needed to be inflexible

He feigned surprise and arched a brow – but something seemed aware in his eyes. "Really?" He said politely, and inquired then. "Well, are you free for dinner?"

"I'm tired, Paul."

"Yes, I can tell." He noted with imperturbable calmness. "What was it? Rough night?" He reattempted. "Bad dreams?"

"Well, that's actually none of your business." She didn't speak sharply, but the reply was clear; the last thing she wanted was to make it his business.

"I see." He nodded, but didn't move an inch. "Well, I was just on my way to go for some coffee, would you care to join me? I know no better cure to sleepless nights." That was only half true; he could think of quite a better cure for Sara Tancredi's mood, right now, although he thought it smarter not to point it out.

"If you don't mind, Paul, I'd rather be alone today."

This much was enough to dim the imperceptible smile on his lips; it was his reaction to surprise. But Paul Kellerman dealt well with surprises. Truthfully, he grew bored in an instant without them. And so, both quick and patient, he appraised the young woman's behavior, and her sudden cautiousness. Once he would have spotted which fences she had drawn, it would be easy to break them down.

"Well, that's up to you." He first emphasized, gentler than a lamb. "Though now I'm afraid you got me worrying, I wouldn't feel right leaving you by yourself."

"It's fine, really." He watched her flinch in her character slightly – that coldness was but a layer of ice asking to be kicked down. "Lincoln is going to stop by some time this afternoon."

That was a lie, but Sara figured she wouldn't be above making something up, if it would make Kellerman disappear from her doorstep right now.

"So you won't be alone anyway." He observed, neither offended nor reproachful; above all, not worried. Because he suspected Sara had never quite looked at their relationship as something that could last, and so rejection was but a natural step of their friendship; therefore… when she would give in now, and she would give in, eventually, it would be the last time she refused him anything.

In order for this to work, she had to think of him as a person who would remain in her life – someone who would make her as happy, if not happier than her first husband had.

Kellerman watched the confidence decrease, in the eyes of the woman he preyed on, and she was meant to realize that he would get his way today, just by the time he yielded. "All right, well. You'll be sure to let me know when you have some spare time. You have my number." He smiled with as much genuineness as it took, and turned away without further insistence.

Because it was about time this woman realized that she cared whether or not he walked out on her. It was about time she realized the best days of her week were those when he stopped by.

And so walking away, Kellerman allowed himself a full grin, merciless and _very_ devious. Because right now, he knew the young woman felt as though he'd gone with something she needed.

And he would get that phone call by the end of the day.

…

The clock announced ten p.m. by the time Kellerman started to rethink his judgment. And he wasn't the type of man who likes to question himself.

At some point or another, that phone would ring, and there'd be Sara Tancredi at the other end of the line. He was one hundred percent certain of this, when he'd left her house this afternoon, and each hour passing by seemed to steal away a small percentage.

He didn't allow himself to think twice on his confidence.

She'd call.

She would call because, after spending two to three days a week in his company, she'd start realizing that he was basically the only excitement left in her life. She might still fear him, she might even still hate him, the fact remained that there wouldn't be much left for her in the matter of feelings, if she didn't.

Kellerman thought he knew one thing or two about women like Sara Tancredi. And he thought without a doubt that, after loving a man enough to be willing to die for him, the only stronger alternative than to mourn him for a lifetime, would be to have her heart stolen away.

The black did suit her, he had to admit. Still he thought he'd like her even better with no clothes at all.

He could have thought it tricky to seduce a woman freshly widowed, although after a short consideration, he'd decided it was the better way. So that she didn't even have the opportunity to settle in her grief, but moreover acknowledge that she didn't want to – and after that, it was only a matter of time before her hate grew into desire.

Half indifferent, Kellerman sometimes thought that he was doing her a favor. She might believe she wished to belong to her dead husband eternally, such a love, as respectable as it is, couldn't compare to something concrete. And Sara's love for her husband had stopped being concrete, from the moment the object of her love had been put underground.

Kellerman thought perhaps she would try to resist; in fact, she certainly would. But should it take weeks, or months, her resistance would fade, because his affection for her would be real. Because he would crowd her with real promises, that held a concrete significance. The impact on her body would be real, too. Shivers. Dizziness. Heat in her cheeks, and collar.

Something that would remind her that she was alive, and young.

Something other than tears for her loss.

Still, at a quarter past ten, the phone hadn't rung. This managed to irritate him, a bit.

She could wish to be left alone all she wanted, to raise her child on her own and never be desired again, and see what he'd do about that. Oh. That silent phone was enough to fill his head with cruel schemes. Perhaps he'd started out too slow, perhaps he'd been too merciful. He'd promised not to make that mistake again, and yet from time to time, as he'd spotted the deep sorrow in her hazel eyes, he'd played that friendship act slightly too well. She wasn't to think of him as a friend.

She wouldn't _need_ him like a friend.

The sound of silence in the room was enough to inflate his anger. Persuasion used to be his job. Now, when he'd come to see her again, he would be unbending. He would get her out of that house or be let in, should he have to use threat. He would wipe the tears on her cheeks with his lips, not his fingertips.

No more patience. No more mercy.

Then the phone which lay on the bedside table started ringing.

His anger didn't vanish magically like a ghost made of thin air, instead it lingered heavily in his body, and on his mind; he'd gotten carried away. That was one of the things that had happened when he had played Sara Tancredi for the first time, and a mistake he'd sworn not to make again.

The phone had begun its third ring when he picked up. "Hello?" And his voice was impassive, and casual as required; this stage of his game wouldn't be about persuasion. Sara had made the first step for the first time in their relationship, and she would make it all the way.

"Paul, hi." He spotted the nervousness in her voice. "Were you busy or something?"

Her genuine awkwardness managed to appease his anger slightly – every word leaving her mouth was exactly how he'd planned it; he couldn't see why he'd even gotten upset in the first place. It was a bit as though the woman managed to fall in every one of his traps just how he'd intended her to, but not exactly in the way he expected.

Careful, he had to remind himself. It'd be silly to get caught in his own game. Wouldn't that be quite like poetic justice. You reap what you sow. What comes around goes around. See if who laughs fast laughs longer.

At this moment, Paul Kellerman was grateful to think there was no justice in this world… and if there were, it wouldn't be poetic.

"No, Sara." He vouched softly, and in a day only, he knew she'd missed the sound of his voice – because this was the way she would miss him. This was the way she would need him. A fierce, hysterical love, more passionate than anything most women ever experience in their lives, and something that this particular woman never had felt before. Because only something of the sort could wrench her from the promises she'd made to her first husband.

Only passion would win over her devotion.

"Actually, you're not interrupting at all." He went on, and something was more casual in his voice; he aimed to make her comfortable. "I don't know what the weather is like in Channahon, but it's been raining all around since I got back to my hotel. I haven't gotten out of it all day."

This was his way of telling her it was all right and appropriate for her to call, regardless of what the hour should be. This was his invitation to invite him. And this, he knew she would. Because Sara Scofield hadn't just picked up her phone at ten in the evening, without the intention of doing something ridiculously impulsive.

She laughed at this, and though there was no amusement in her laughter, there was a bit of relief. Maybe just because she'd never thought she'd end up discussing the weather with a man who had attempted to kill her, and whom she had attempted to kill. "Yeah, it's um… I haven't gotten out much myself."

"Was Lincoln well?" He asked, for no other purpose than to hear her lie; he knew there had been no meeting with Sara and her brother-in-law today, and for some reason, he would like to hear her make something up. It was ironic, after all, that she would lie to him now. More than ironic. More than she could know.

"Oh, um –" Hesitation cut her words, as well as a bit of guilt. "Yes, he's fine." She cleared her throat before she went on. "Listen, I know it's late, but I have some tea left from this afternoon, and I thought maybe…"

There wasn't a doubt she expected him to tear her from her misery, but Kellerman didn't make a sound. Maybe because he thought it was time she confessed to what she wanted. Maybe just to punish her for not calling sooner.

She cleared her throat a second time. "If you could stop by, just for an hour two, it would mean a lot to me."

This was today's victory, but Kellerman didn't grin. Well, that was the idea, wasn't it? That he meant something to her. Thad she acknowledged he did. And that finally, after the initial fear, she admitted it out loud. Yet, right at this moment, Paul wasn't in the mood to smile at all.

In fact, during a single minute, the strangest of things happened.

He was tempted to let her go.

There were thousands of beautiful women he could prey on, without leaving them as emotionally wrecked as he would leave Sara Tancredi. There were other girls he could choose to tease, and drive mad with desire, girls who wouldn't have to first betray everything they valued and believed in.

He didn't have to push Sara Tancredi to forsake her dead husband. He didn't have to go against her will to belong to man's grave. He didn't have to awaken what she tried to leave behind.

For a second, inexplicably, he was tempted to tell her.

Go. Put down that phone, pack a suitcase, and run with your unborn child somewhere far enough so you won't ever be found. Go before a voice sweeter than an angel's comes out on the other end of the line, and everything inside you starts to surrender. Go before I have the time to change my mind.

The urge was still present on Kellerman's tongue when he opened his mouth to reply, and he had to stifle it with a blow colder than a snowfield. "That's no trouble at all, Sara." He swore and, through his casualness, the emotion in his voice had something authentic. "I'd love to come."

They hung up on this promise, and Kellerman remained still for an instant.

This wasn't the first time he was tempted to set Sara Tancredi free, but it had been a while. Last time had been when he had interrupted her trial, and saved her life. The first had been some time after he met her, when they'd shared a blueberry pie.

What left him frozen now was the thought that, if this wasn't the first time, it may not be the last.

Kellerman was not a good man, and he was not much interested in philosophical things; he lived a life of satisfaction, and had met enough pleasure so far, without anything quite standing out in the balance. He had never known something paradoxical enough so that, just when his fist was about to close on the catch, he was almost tempted to let his hand fall to his side. He had never met something so beautiful he decided to leave it there, free, untroubled, and unscarred.

There had never been anything that he had wanted enough not to want it.

And now…

He wondered with his eyes closed. Perhaps Sara Tancredi was part of a new game, one that wasn't quite completely alike all the ones he'd played before. Perhaps she would be a bit realer than that.

Then a thought crossed his mind, but didn't quite hit him.

Perhaps he was playing the only thing that was meant to be true in his life.

…

Sara's hands were shaking when she poured tea inside his cup. Her own lay untouched in a corner of the table, quietly cooling.

If, a few months ago, she'd had to write a list of unlikely situations, having tea with Paul Kellerman would have no doubt made the top ten. But she couldn't quite blame this on the crazy circumstances of her crazy life anymore. She'd called him.

For a while, she'd tried to think it was part of a temporary insanity, some sort of mad pregnancy phase or whatnot; but deep down, there was a deeper knowledge to this situation, one that Sara Tancredi would rather ignore, as careful of a woman as she was.

She had begun to accept Paul Kellerman as a part of her life. It wasn't a single day in his absence that had made her realize it, but rather the fact that she pictured parting with him. When she had first agreed to his friendship, she had known that it was branded with an expiration date; she had agreed because she was lonely, because the only friend she had was a brother-in-law, who grieved her husband almost as deeply as she did. The thought of a friendship with her former torturer had appeared mad, but there was more excitement to the thought than fear – and excitement was something that had drastically drained from Sara's life, in the past month. Grief had hit fast, and it had hit hard, and the hours she spent crying were so heavy that, although it was mad, to accept Kellerman's offer had seemed enticing.

It had seemed okay to let him tease her, and bring lightness and warmth into her days, for the time it would last.

She didn't think she would want it to last this long. But as she found herself alone, pregnant, and with no joy or life inside her house, she had realized she needed it, too.

And she would indulge herself into that need.

"Well, I can't say I expected you to call today." Kellerman said after a small swallow of tea; his tone was casual enough so that the mention didn't make her uneasy. "Though I have to admit, I'm a bit relieved you did."

"You worried about me, did you?"

"That's not it. You know, whether you'd like to believe it or not, I actually fancy your company." He smiled, and admitted. "But I did, worry about you."

Sara put down her tea and sighed. "I'm sorry I threw you out this morning."

"You didn't throw me out, this would imply you had let me in."

"I mean it, Paul." She pinched her lips together to hold back another sigh. "I was tired, and – I wanted to be alone."

This wasn't the real reason, but it didn't trouble him that she lied. What mattered was, in the course of her day, she had realized alone was the last thing she wanted to be. The idea might have seemed inviting, when her world of grief seemed gray and gloomy – but not when there was the possibility of another a life. One where she would laugh, want and be wanted, and loved. Even if she had to love a man her husband hated.

"That's okay, Sara." Kellerman said and, as he followed the thread of her thoughts, easily spotted thanks to that gloom that brought sadness in her eyes, and depth to her beauty, he added on instinct. "It must be terrible to have him gone."

She lifted her face to him, eyes drowned in bewilderment, an emotion so fully confused that it could have been relief as well as outrage. She could have kicked him out of her house for such a personal statement, if he hadn't spoken it with such sincerity – and if he hadn't gotten it so right.

As if, for months, Sara had been left without a husband, and through the sorry condolences she collected, no one had thought of asking her how that felt.

She remained silent for a minute or two, still puzzled and breathless, before the words started coming out. "Every time I dream of him… it's like my mind is trying to fool me, into forgetting it's not real. Every time I wake up," she went on, and her voice clouded, "there's a lingering moment when I close my eyes again, and I try to go back." She swallowed, as though it were the most ridiculous thing in the world. "I try to go _back_." She said again, almost apologetic, and before she could think of wishing back such personal words, her mind was wrenched back to reality, as a hand came in contact with her knee.

Her eyes flew to Kellerman's hand, but he didn't break the contact, and his touch felt – familiar.

It was meant to be reassuring, she knew this much, and the weight of his fingers on her leg was the liveliest contact she'd felt in months, and yet… something more came with that touch.

A memory.

A souvenir of their "friendship".

She remembered more than well being friends with Paul Kellerman before, back when she thought he was a harmless addict in her group, and she remembered just as vividly where this friendship had led her… and in an instant, she remembered her dream.

The message that the dream had tried to pass along, and which she had tried to follow in the morning, only to ignore as night fell.

The nightmare had been about the torture; about the day she had spent, strapped to a chair, inside a shady motel room. Sara thought she recalled this day well, but there had been a detail in the dream, something that hadn't quite hit her then, but which was all she could focus on now – it had been a touch, just like now.

When Paul Kellerman put her head underwater, when he wiped her face gently with his gloved hands, there had been something that she hadn't noticed right away. The pain and panic of the moment had perhaps prevented her from it.

His fingers, when they pushed damp locks out of her face, had lingered slightly on her cheek, and down her neck. His index had brushed the curve of her collarbone before he pulled away.

The memory was so vague it might as well be solely part of the dream; this was perhaps even paranoia.

But deep down, she knew it was real. While he'd been questioning her with violent threats and icy water, there had been a part of him that had wanted her. She had felt the desire in his touch, like a trail of clues left by his fingertips.

This was why the dream had shaken her. This was why this one had been _different_.

Because if Paul Kellerman wanted her then, then odds were, he wanted her still.

Because this put a whole new dimension to his promise of friendship.

Because Sara Tancredi was a careful woman; she should know better by now.

But she didn't slap his hand away, and when his fingers tightened around her knee in a comforting squeeze, she didn't move still.

And as the seconds wore on, she began to curse her fate. If the caring mask fell from the face of her sweet Paul Kellerman, she would have been warned.

And at this moment, she thought, there were no worse evils than those which doomed us hopelessly, and which we made no effort to escape from.


End file.
